The Life of the Fly 



times as large as a plate, with a narrow stripe 

 of yellow down his back, makes his appoint- 

 ments here to take his bath; when the evening 

 twilight falls, we see hopping along the edge 

 the Midwife Toad, the male, who carries a 

 cluster of eggs, the size of peppercorns, 

 wrapped round his hindlegs: the genial pater- 

 familias has brought his precious packet from 

 afar, to leave it in the water and afterwards re- 

 tire under some flat stone, whence he will emit 

 a sound like a tinkling bell. Lastly, when not 

 croaking amid the foliage, the Tree-frogs in- 

 dulge in the most graceful dives. And so, in 

 May, as soon as it is dark, the pond becomes a 

 deafening orchestra: it is impossible to talk at 

 table, impossible to sleep. We had to remedy 

 this by means perhaps a little too rigorous. 

 What could we do? He who tries to sleep 

 and cannot needs becomes ruthless. 



Bolder still, the Wasp has taken possession 

 of the dwelling-house. On my door-sill, in 

 a soil of rubbish, nestles the White-banded 

 Sphex: when I go indoors, I must be care- 

 ful not to damage her burrows, not to tread 

 upon the miner absorbed in her work. It is 

 quite a quarter of a century since I last saw 

 the saucy Cricket-hunter. When I made her 

 acquaintance, I used to visit her at a few 



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